Chapter 10 #2
"Cara needs to document your statement formally," I tell her. "Make it official. A legal record that can be used to prosecute Graves. Are you up for that?"
Her pen moves across the page.
Will it stop him?
"It's a major step toward stopping him. Your testimony, combined with the evidence Cara's gathering—it builds a case that federal authorities can't ignore. Even with all his connections, Graves can't make this disappear once it's officially documented."
Okay. I'll do it.
"We can do it in here if that will make you feel safer. Cara will set up her recording equipment, ask questions, you'll write your answers, and everything gets documented properly. It's standard witness testimony procedure."
She nods, sets the notebook aside, visibly gathering herself for what comes next.
I call Cara and tell her Traci would feel safer in the infirmary.
Cara assures me that won’t be a problem and arrives with her laptop and a small camera on a tripod.
She sets it up efficiently and professionally, explaining each step to Traci.
What the recording will capture. How the testimony will be documented.
What protections exist for witnesses in federal cases.
I stay in the room while Cara conducts the interview.
Watch Traci answer questions with careful precision.
Watch her write out descriptions of what she observed—the man's height, build, bearing, voice.
The fragments of conversation she overheard about Haywood and federal exposure.
The behavioral patterns she noticed with the guards.
Through the open door, I catch sight of Eli moving past in the hallway.
Brief glimpse of him checking defensive positions, that coiled tension in every movement.
Muscle memory—my body remembering how that discipline felt directed at me last night.
Focused. Intense. Taking me apart with the same precision he uses for everything.
It's a distraction I don't need right now.
Cara documents everything. Timestamps the video recording. Has Traci initial each page of written testimony. Builds a legal record that'll survive scrutiny.
It takes hours. By the time we're finished, Traci's exhausted and Cara has documentation that connects Graves to the compound through multiple corroborating observations.
"This is excellent work," Cara tells Traci. "You've given us everything we need to move forward with prosecution. Now you rest and let us handle the legal side."
Traci nods, settles back into the bed. Relief crosses her expression. The sense that she's done what she needed to do. That she's fought back the only way she could.
After Cara leaves with the documentation, I stay with Traci. Make sure she's comfortable. Check her vitals. I provide the kind of straightforward medical care that doesn't require emotional processing.
The door opens quietly. Eli appears, moving into the room with that predatory awareness he brings to everything—checking corners, evaluating threats, taking up space in a way that makes the infirmary feel smaller.
His gaze finds Traci first, assessing her condition with the clinical precision of someone who's triaged field casualties. Then his attention shifts to me.
Want slides through my body, sharp and immediate. The weight of him, the calculated force, the way he took me apart with brutal efficiency.
This is not the time.
"How is she?" he asks. His voice is low, rough-edged.
"Exhausted but okay. She gave Cara everything needed for prosecution."
He nods, moves closer to the bed. Traci watches him with that wary assessment she uses on everyone. Still trying to read whether he's safe, whether she can trust this uncle she barely knows.
Eli pulls a chair closer. Sits. Holds her gaze with steady intensity that might terrify enemy combatants but seems to ground her.
"You did good today," he tells her. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Took real spine to give them what they needed. Most people break under less."
Her pen moves. She shows him the notebook.
Are you proud of me?
The question hangs in the air. Vulnerable. A seventeen-year-old girl asking her uncle—a man she barely knows, who's been living isolated in the wilderness for years—if he's proud of her.
Eli's expression doesn't soften. Doesn't shift into warmth or reassurance. But something changes in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. The kind you only get from someone who understands surviving hell.
"Yeah." It's a single word. No elaboration. A beat passes. "You survived what would've destroyed most people. Fought back. Doing what needs doing to stop them." He pauses. "That's strength."
Traci's face lights up. A genuine smile that transforms her features. She scribbles quickly.
Thank you for keeping me safe.
"That's the job." Eli's voice roughens slightly. "You're family. Means something."
I watch the exchange, see Eli connect with this girl without softening the hard edges that define him.
No false warmth. No pretending he's something other than a man who learned to survive by managing the darkness the field put in him.
Just brutal honesty delivered with the same sharp focus he brings to everything.
He's not broken. Not fixed. Just containing the violence through rigid discipline most people don't have.
This is the man David could never be—someone who faces his demons without destroying himself or everyone around him.
Traci's eyes are drooping. The exhaustion catching up with her.
"Rest," I tell her. "You've done enough for today."
She nods, settles deeper into the bed. Within minutes, she's asleep.
Eli and I leave the infirmary together. Move into the hallway. The compound is quieter now, late afternoon settling into evening. Finn's still outside monitoring sensors. Cara's processing documentation in the communications room. Defensive preparations continuing in the background.
Eli stops. Turns to face me in the narrow hallway. Close enough that I catch the scent of him—gun oil, coffee, something darker underneath that makes my pulse kick.
"She's tough," he says quietly.
"She is. Tougher than she knows."
"She trusts you." His gaze holds mine. Steady. Assessing. "That's not easy for her. Trust."
"I know. But she's learning that not everyone's a threat." I study his face, see the tension in his jaw, the controlled stillness that comes from managing what he is every minute of every day. "You're good with her. Better than you think."
"Don't know what I'm doing."
"None of us do with trauma survivors. But you're showing up. That's what matters."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there in the hallway, working through whatever he's thinking.
Close enough that I feel the heat coming off him.
Close enough that my body remembers what those hands felt like—the controlled force, the bruising pressure, the way he took me apart with the same focused intensity he brings to killing.
Dangerous territory while we're preparing for an assault.
His hand comes up. Fingers brush my jaw, just once. Light touch that sends electricity straight through me.
"What happens after?" he asks, voice dropping lower. Rougher. "When this is over. When Graves is dealt with and the threat's eliminated. What happens to Traci?"
Takes me a second to answer through the distraction of his thumb now tracing my jawline. "She'll need support. Therapy. Time to heal. A safe place to build a life that's not defined by what was done to her."
"She'll need family." His hand drops but he doesn't step back. Still in my space, still close enough that I feel the controlled violence in him like static. "Someone who gives a damn whether she makes it or not."
I look at him. See what he's not saying. "You planning to stick around? Be that family?"
"Don't know if I'm the right person for that."
"Why not?"
"Because I've spent years isolated learning to control what the field made me. Because I'm not exactly stable family material." His jaw tightens. "Because she deserves better than an uncle who's one bad day away from losing the control he's built."
"That's bullshit and you know it." I keep my voice level.
Matter of fact. "You're not David. You're not going to destroy yourself trying to contain what you are.
You think before you act. You maintain control even under pressure.
" I step closer, into him. "You're exactly the kind of family she needs—someone who understands trauma and survival without making it about himself. "
He studies my face. That same careful assessment he uses for threat evaluation. Then his hand's at the back of my neck, grip firm, pulling me close enough that his mouth brushes my ear.
"You sound very sure about that," he says, voice gone rough and low.
Heat floods through me. "I am sure. Because I've watched you with her. Watched you connect without losing the edge that makes you who you are." My hands find his chest, feel the controlled tension in him. "You're not broken, Eli. You're just careful. There's a difference."
"Helena—"
"I'm not asking you to make promises you can't keep. I'm just saying you're better at this than you think. And Traci needs someone who shows up. Who stays. Who gives a damn." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "You're already doing that."
He doesn't argue. Just absorbs what I'm saying with that focused intensity. His hand's still at my neck, thumb stroking the pulse point there—slow, deliberate pressure that makes it hard to think about anything except how those hands felt last night.
"When this is over," he says finally, "when Graves is dealt with and Traci's safe—I'm not going back to my cabin. Not going back to isolation."
"What are you going to do?"
"Figure out how to live with what I am instead of hiding from it. Stick around. Be the family Traci needs." His grip tightens slightly. Heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with tactical planning. "See where things go with a certain doctor who doesn't flinch when things get dark."
Before I can respond to that—before I can do something stupid like pull him into the nearest room and finish what his hands are starting—footsteps sound from the main room. Quick, urgent. Sheriff Zeke MacAllister appears in the hallway, his expression grim.
"We've got a problem," he says without preamble. "Just got intel from one of my contacts in the Marshals Service. Graves has confirmed you have Traci. He assumes she's talking. And he's mobilizing every remaining asset he's got."
The temperature drops.
"Timeline?" Eli asks, voice going flat. Tactical.
"Within the next day. Sooner if he pushes it." Zeke's jaw tightens. "This isn't reconnaissance anymore. This is the final push. Graves is coming himself with everything left in his arsenal. One last play to eliminate the witness before her testimony destroys him."
Eli's already moving. "We need to reinforce defensive positions. Optimize every field of fire. Make sure the northern approach is locked down."
"I'll help," Zeke offers.
They head toward the main room, leaving me standing in the hallway with the weight of what's coming settling over everything.
Yesterday Graves was mobilizing within days. Today it's within hours.
The timeline's accelerating. Graves knows we have the evidence. Knows Traci's testimony will destroy him.
And he's coming with everything he's got to eliminate the threat before it becomes unstoppable.
I head back to the infirmary. Traci's asleep, her breathing steady and even. Peaceful. She has no idea that the clock just accelerated from days to hours.
Everyone preparing for what comes next.
I stand in the doorway watching Traci sleep, and all I can think is: when Graves comes, this compound becomes a battlefield. And my job won't be stopping the assault.
It'll be keeping people alive after.